So today I wanted to dig into why we hold onto stuff that seems useless to outsiders. It hit me when my wallet ripped last Tuesday. All my cards scattered everywhere, but that stupid wrinkled cinema ticket stub from 2018 stayed put in its special pocket.
I started asking folks about their own things. First was my barista Jenny, who always wears this chipped shark tooth necklace. She laughed when I asked: “Oh this? It’s from Florida trip with Dad. He’s gone now. Can’t shower without it.” Her fingers kept touching it while she talked.
Next day, I emptied my own junk drawer – total chaos. Found my grandpa’s broken Zippo lighter. Doesn’t spark anymore, but suddenly I’m ten years old again watching him light his pipe. Smelled like cherries and tobacco. Just held it for fifteen minutes straight remembering. Weird how stuff does that.
Grabbed my notebook and hit the park. Asked random people what they couldn’t ditch:
- Construction guy showed me baby shoes in his toolbox (his first kid’s)
- Teen girl had concert confetti in phone case (“best night ever”)
- Old man pulled out crumpled love letter from jacket (wife died 3 years ago)
Started carrying that busted lighter in my coat pocket all week. Felt dumb at first. But waiting in DMV line? Fingered it in my pocket when stressed. Made me breathe slower. Almost like grandpa patting my shoulder from beyond.
Here’s what clicked: We’re not keeping objects – we’re gripping memories that might fade. That theater ticket? First date with Mara. Fingering it reminds me how nervous I was spilling popcorn everywhere. The crinkle sound? Time machine to her laughing.
Tried leaving it home yesterday. Felt like forgetting my phone charger – just this low panic humming under my ribs. Ended up going back for it before lunch. Whole experiment proved one thing: We attach stories to things like superglue. And honestly? That’s pretty damn human.
